


Love's Labour's Won

by a_t_rain



Category: Love's Labour's Lost - Shakespeare, SHAKESPEARE William - Works
Genre: F/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-25
Updated: 2014-11-25
Packaged: 2018-02-27 00:54:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2672831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_t_rain/pseuds/a_t_rain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A twelvemonth and a day is enough to change people.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. With All the Fierce Endeavor of Your Wit

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't by ANY means an attempt at a conjectural reconstruction. I rather suspect that if the real LLW ever surfaces (and I hope it does turn up during my lifetime), it will turn out to be much more like _Much Ado About Nothing_ than anything I've written here; my theory is that it didn't make it into the First Folio because it was cannibalized for spare parts. Angevin2 posted a bunch of quotations attributed to Shakespeare from a commonplace book called _England's Parnassus_ over at [LJ](http://angevin2.livejournal.com/508236.html); just for fun, I tried to work in as many of them as I could in some form or another. (It turns out that some of them are in fact identifiable quotes that have merely been misattributed, mostly from Spenser -- but by then I had already written them into the story, so I decided to run with them. On occasion, I've modified a line when neither meter nor sense seemed to be present, since _England's Parnassus_ is full of misquotations anyway.)
> 
> While this almost certainly isn't the sequel Shakespeare would have written, for any number of reasons, I've tried to keep things within the general spirit of Shakespearean comedy -- with the recognition that this spirit encompasses a lot of darkness and pain at times, as well as considerable tension between homosocial and heterosexual affection. I hope I may be excused for giving Longaville and Dumaine, and Maria and Katharine, certain differences in personality and attitude that are not warranted by the play -- for a year can be enough to change people in unexpected ways.
> 
> All echoes of later comedies, especially _Much Ado_ and _As You Like It_ , are deliberate.

__**Rosaline:** You shall this twelvemonth term from day to day  
Visit the speechless sick, and still converse  
With groaning wretches, and your task shall be  
With all the fierce endeavor of your wit  
To enforce the pained impotent to smile.  
 **Berowne:** To move wild laughter in the throat of death?  
It cannot be, it is impossible. 

“I have had a letter from your friend, Lord Longaville,” said the doctor. “He writes that he is returned from the wars with another lord, Dumaine, who was wounded in this late action against the Turk. They intend to travel to the court and take you with them. They should be here within these two days.”

Berowne started a little at this news. “Has it been a year since I came to you?”

“A year and odd days.”

“And I have served but eleven months of my term. I had better write to Longaville and tell him I will join them in a month. Have you paper?”

The doctor shook his head. “Lord Longaville told me of your vow. You are not to be blamed for losing some weeks to sickness, any more than a soldier is to be blamed for losing some term of his service to injury. You are hardly well enough to travel yet; but I think it better that you go at once than remain here, exposed to all sorts of pestilence.”

Berowne grinned. “In other words, I have worn out my welcome in your hospital, and you would fain lose a jester whose poor wit cannot keep pace with his tongue.”

“No, Master Berowne – _Lord_ Berowne, I should say.”

“Longaville’s given me away, has he? I should have the rogue put in prison for slander, save that what he says is true.”

“You ought, rather, to thank him for explaining who you are and why you came to us, and so saving you from conjectures that might be far more slanderous. I myself thought you a madman when you first came here.”

“And you do not now? Why, man, you had it right the first time!”

“No. Lord Berowne, if you _will_ hear me for a moment and not talk yourself back into a fever, I was about to say that you have done great good here. I had thought it some wild and indecorous fancy of yours to go into a hospital and try to raise laughter from the sick; I see now that it was not so. I have never known a year in which so few of our patients died.”

For almost the first time in his life, Berowne was too astonished to speak. It seemed to him that he had seen nothing but death this twelvemonth: death from plague, from fevers, from consumption, from strange cancers, from age and hunger and despair. It had cost him almost all he had to find matter for laughter, day after day, and even before his own illness he had felt worn to a very shadow.

“I think you have discovered a cure beyond any pill or potion I can give. I shall hire a jester to visit every week, if I can persuade our patron to give us the money.”

“Why not me?” Berowne raised a hand to his roughened cheek. “You would save on motley; mine is in grain, and will not wash out.”

He laughed at his own jest. The doctor did not. “You have never asked me for a glass. Would you like one?”

“A glass of what?” Berowne asked. “Wine? By all means, doctor; I thank you.”

The doctor took a bottle of wine from his cabinet and poured it out, suddenly unwilling to look his patient in the eye. “I meant a looking-glass. It is the first thing most people ask for when they have had the smallpox.”

“No,” said Berowne, who had known from the first what the doctor had meant. “I thank the Lord, I am no Narcissus to fall a-doting on mine own reflection, and I am sure that it has not improved since I saw it last.”

“You may find that it is not so bad as you fear, my lord. And the marks often fade with time.”

“Who said anything of fear?” Berowne knocked back his glass of wine at a gulp.

The doctor was looking at him with more pity than was strictly comfortable, and Berowne decided it was time to end the interview. “I had almost forgot. Your fee, doctor.”

The doctor tried to hand back the purse almost as soon as Berowne had given it to him. “This is too much.”

“Not so. You saved my life, I think.”

“As to that, I do not know. No man knows for certain why some patients live and some do not.”

“You’re the first doctor I’ve known who owned as much. I should double your fee for that alone. Take it, man, ‘tis a donation for the hospital. Hire a jester for every day of the week, if you would do something for my sake.”

* * *

Longaville and Dumaine arrived at the hospital of St. Luke on the following day. Dumaine walked with a limp, and leaned heavily on a cane; he had taken a musket-ball in the leg, he said, and the surgeon had wanted to amputate it, but Dumaine had refused. And he had, after all, been proven right. “Better a bad leg than none at all, if a man has to choose. I see you are of the same philosophy with regard to faces.”

Berowne laughed and embraced Dumaine. Longaville looked distinctly uncomfortable.

They left the hospital as soon as things had been arranged to Longaville’s satisfaction, which took some time, as he insisted on treating both Berowne and Dumaine as if they were made of glass. Once they had been helped into the back of the coach by the servants, and smothered under a quantity of furs and robes more suited to a Russian winter than a warm spring afternoon in Navarre, Longaville at last mounted his own horse and gave the order to leave.

Berowne looked at Dumaine, grimaced, and thrust most of his robes toward the other side of the coach.

“What are you doing?” Dumaine protested. “Do you not see that I have enough of my own? There – there’s room for them on the floor. Poor fellow, he means well. I think he had a worse time of it in the war than I did, to tell you the truth.”

Berowne was about to object that this was absurd, but then thought better of it. He had been watching by sickbeds for nearly a year, and it was not, after all, easy to watch.

“Tell me in sober judgment, Dumaine, what do I look like?”

“Like a death’s head well rubbed with a cheese-grater. What do _I_ look like?”

“Like a most excellent match for the Lady Katharine. Thou art grown as crooked as she.”

Dumaine, of course, did not take this insult to his beloved quietly, and the rest of the journey passed quickly in a friendly battle of wits.

* * *

When they arrived at the inn, Longaville insisted that Berowne was to be given some supper and a bed at once. Berowne was, for once, grateful for his friend’s solicitude. He felt too weary to linger over his wine, as Longaville and Dumaine showed every sign of doing; he bid them good-night and dragged himself up the stairs like an old man.

He was fast asleep by the time his friends came in, and knew nothing of their presence until he was wakened by a terrified shriek.

“ _To horse, to horse! They are upon us – treachery, treachery, fly! I saw him die – this is his blood –_ ”

Berowne groped for his candle and lit it from the embers of the fire. Dumaine was sitting on the edge of Longaville’s bed, trying to wake him.

“All’s well, old fellow – there’s no danger here. Come, wake thee. Steady; thou’rt in thine own country, and there’s none here but good friends.”

Longaville’s eyes were open, but he was staring about him wildly, as if unable to comprehend that he was not in the midst of a battle.

“How long hath he been thus?” Berowne whispered.

“Since we came from the wars. Give me some light, there. It will pass when he knows us again.” Dumaine managed to fit his arm around Longaville, who was flailing violently, and pulled him closer. “Come, lad, take heart. The worst is past.”

“A cripple, a disfigured man, and a madman,” said Berowne. “We want only a trained monkey, and then we can travel the countryside and take in pennies from any peasant who would see a gallery of monsters.”

Longaville managed to get a grip on himself and smiled weakly.

Dumaine drew a long breath. “Thy railing is a faster cure than gentleness, I see.”

“Should we send downstairs for some wine or aqua-vitae?”

Dumaine shook his head. “He’s had enough to drink. I think that makes it worse, in truth.”

“Many men have such dreams when they have been to the wars,” said Berowne. “My own father was plagued by them until the day he died, and he had as much courage and sense as any man in Navarre.”

He saw Longaville relax at this, and a little of the fear go out of his eyes.

“Go to sleep,” Dumaine whispered. “I’ll watch. I promise.”

* * *

How long Dumaine kept his promise Berowne did not know, but none of them woke until quite late in the morning. Fortunately, the court of Navarre was less than a day’s journey away.

When they drove up to the palace, Berowne’s young servant looked about with wide, astonished eyes, until at last Berowne ordered him to stop staring and look to the horses. The boy was called Lucas. He had been left at the hospital as a baby, and like most of the foundlings, he had been named after St. Luke. In his sixteen years, he had never before traveled farther from the hospital than the town square; he had never known a place where you could call “Lucas!” without a dozen boys running to you.

Life at court, Berowne thought, would be something else altogether. He amused himself for a few moments by imagining it through Lucas’s eyes.

“Has the king arrived?” Longaville asked one of the gentlemen of the palace.

“Aye, he came yesterday. He will be glad to see you, my lords; I will make it known to him.”

King Ferdinand had been away for a year, mewed up with his books at a remote monastery. Longaville and Dumaine had gone with him, but they had decided after a few months that the solitude was too much to bear, and they would be more profitably employed in the wars. The king had given them his blessing, but had professed his own determination to follow his lady’s commands to the letter.

Berowne wondered how well he had endured his year of enforced solitude. It was true that the king was a zealous and accomplished scholar, but he was also a sociable young man who must have found life very dull without his three favorite companions and a handful of sillier courtiers on which to exercise their wits. Well, it served him right for vowing to dedicate three years of his life to study and asceticism in the first place, and then breaking that vow within a week.

The king spotted Longaville first and ran forward to embrace him. (Berowne would always remember that moment: the sheer joy with which Ferdinand flung himself at his old friend.) He and Dumaine were following behind, more slowly, because of Dumaine’s leg. Ferdinand caught sight of them and his face changed, all in an instant, as a swift-moving cloud covers the sun and chills the air.

The cloud passed; the king mastered himself; but things were not quite as they had been before.

“My dear lords,” said Ferdinand, “welcome home.”

* * *

The king seemed to be in a very ill humor at breakfast the next morning; he ate little and spoke less.

“Do we travel to the hermitage of St. Syncletica today, my liege?” Longaville ventured to ask.

The Queen of France had spent the year since her father’s death at the hermitage, which lay just beyond the border between Navarre and France. She was accompanied by three of her ladies, who were betrothed – more or less, and with certain conditions – to Berowne, Longaville, and Dumaine.

“Oh, aye.” said the king. He was scowling. “I have much to say to my lady of France.”

“He had better fit his face to his discourse, and not his discourse to his face,” commented Berowne. “If he looks like _that_ when he speaks to her, the poor lady is like to mistake his offer of marriage for a declaration of war.”

“Peace,” whispered Dumaine, “he’ll hear you, and he seems in no mood for jests. What on earth ails him?”

“Where did Longaville lie last night?” Berowne asked.

“In the chamber next to the king,” said Dumaine, and then realized the implications of this. “Do you think the king heard anything? I told two of the servants to stay with him and keep him quiet, but perhaps they could not.”

Berowne observed the king’s manner toward Longaville for a moment, and noted a constraint that had not been there yesterday. “I am sure he did.”

* * *

Another day of travel brought the king’s party to the hermitage. Berowne had been thinking nearly all day of Rosaline: what he might say to her, and what she would say to him. But when the time came, he found that he would fain have delayed it a while longer.

Rosaline, though well known as the merriest and wittiest of the French queen’s ladies, was not a classic beauty. Her hair and eyes were as black as ink, and her skin was more brown than fair; some said she had Moorish blood. To Berowne, though, she seemed perfectly beautiful, and heart-breaking in her perfection.

“Lady Rosaline,” he said softly, and stepped into the light.

She started at her first sight of him. He kept his eyes on her face, which was, after all, the only looking-glass that mattered. He saw sadness in her eyes, but not revulsion. Good. She stepped forward and took his hand. Better.

“Lord Berowne. I am very sorry to see that you have not been well. How do you?”

“Better than I was. My lady –” He had been dreading this part, but knew that it had to be said. “If you would be released from any of the vows we made before I left, I do release you.”

“Is that what _you_ wish, my lord?” She spoke as if she were holding back tears.

“I? No, not for the world. Why would I wish such a thing?”

“I set you a rash task, not pausing to think what the consequence might be. I cannot blame you if you are very angry with me.”

“No. I am not angry. I have much to tell thee, Rosaline, hereafter – but know this much now. I think I have seen and done more in a year at the hospital of St. Luke than I could have in a hundred years at court. More that is real, I mean. I am glad that you sent me there.”

She moved a little closer, her cheek almost against his shoulder. “It’s changed you.”

“Yes.”

“You do not talk in verse, as you were used to do.”

“No. Do you miss it?”

“No,” said Rosaline. “Most true it is, that true love has no power to looken back; his eyes be fixed before.” She stood on tiptoe and kissed him, rather hesitantly at first, and then more positively.

“Is that a French proverb, my lady?”

“An English poem. We have been reading about the qualities of a great queen.”

“I did not know the English had any poetry of their own. I thought they only filched bits and pieces from other nations, as they do with their language, their manners, and their wearing-apparel.”

Rosaline took a step back. “My lord, I see that I have not cured you of that fault of flouting and mocking at the world.”

“No, my dear. You have not, nor you cannot. I shall die in that fault, if it be a fault, before I shall live cured of it. Come, will you take me with all my faults, as you promised you would do if I could not reform them?”

“With all my heart.” She kissed him again. “I am glad of it.”

This conversation was, naturally, so absorbing to the participants that neither Berowne nor Rosaline noticed much of what was going on around them. Their first indication that things were going wrong was the sound of Katharine’s raised voice:

“I beg pardon, your majesty, but Maria and I did not bid them go to the wars. They did that of their own choice.”

“That is true, my liege,” said Dumaine. “I am wounded, but not by her hand, nor by any wrong she hath done me.” He was standing with his arm around Katharine’s waist, as if it had frozen there; both of them had their eyes fixed on the king.

“And what of Rosaline?” said the king. “She sent her love to bide a twelvemonth in a place of pestilence, and there you see the issue. Look on him, for God’s sake!”

“Er – my liege?” said Berowne. “Before I am introduced as an exhibit in a law-case, I should like to know the nature of the cause!” 

Ferdinand ignored this and addressed himself to the queen. “My men have learned what Adam and Samson learned to their cost: it is not good to follow a woman’s bidding.”

The Queen of France replied, “And _I_ , it seems, have learned what Ariadne and Dido learned before me: there is no faith in a man’s declarations. Though he swear himself hoarse, yet he’ll be forsworn ere he’s a twelvemonth older. O rash false heat, wrapped in repentance cold!”

“Thy haste spills still our blood, and turns youth old,” retorted Longaville, who appeared to be taking King Ferdinand’s part. Maria looked as if he had slapped her in the face.

“This sounds not like lover’s talk,” Berowne observed.

“No,” said Rosaline, “it appears that your liege and my lady have gone directly from wooing to repenting, and passed over the wedding entirely.”

“Longaville,” Dumaine protested, “be reasonable. The ladies have spilt no one’s blood.”

“I will not be reasonable. I have watched beside you when you seemed like to die, I have seen men lose their lives, I have heard the roaring of the Turk’s cannons. I hear them still. And all the while, these ladies have sat comfortably in their hermitage, no doubt making sport of our troubles and mocking at how willingly we became their slaves!”

“You talk as though you had confounded Maria with the Turk! Look at her, you fool! Where is her turban and her beard?”

“Never you mind, my lord.” Maria’s voice was thin and flat. “I am learning much about Lord Longaville that I had not known before. I thank him for the intelligence.”

“We are all, I think, learning much that we had not known before,” said the queen. “Ladies, come away. If we are indeed so troublesome to these men of Navarre, we’ll trouble them no longer.”

It was plain that she would brook no disobedience. Maria turned and followed her at once; Katharine broke away from Dumaine and came away more slowly; and last of all, with a stricken look at Berowne, followed Rosaline.


	2. You That Way, We This Way

“My lord,” said Berowne, “with all due respect, thou art a damned fool.”

King Ferdinand gave him a dangerous look. “Wouldst care to reconsider that opinion?”

“Yes. Upon reconsideration, you’re also a coxcomb.”

Ferdinand gave a snort that _might_ have concealed a laugh, although it was hard to tell. “I _was_ a damned fool and a coxcomb. My eyes are opened now. What these French ladies have done to thee, and to Dumaine, and Longaville, is past forgiveness.”

“Do not make this our quarrel, my liege,” said Dumaine. “We do not blame them – at least, Berowne and I do not,” he amended quickly, for Longaville seemed to be of another mind. “What have they to do with the chances of war or sickness? They did not will these griefs upon us, nor have they lived untouched by grief themselves.”

These arguments made no visible impression on King Ferdinand, who was in a towering rage at the world, and especially at the Queen of France. He would have returned to his own court at once if Berowne had not forestalled him. “I am not well, my liege, and we have been traveling these three days; I can no more.”

Ferdinand, seeming to listen for the first time, recalled that he had a hunting lodge just over the border, and proposed that they spend a few days there.

“Good thinking,” said Dumaine under his breath. “‘Tis near enough for us to visit the ladies, and you can feign sickness for as long as you will.”

“There’s not much feigning in it, Dumaine, I feel worn to a nub.”

“Poor fellow! We’ll visit the hot springs tomorrow; ‘tis said they are very sovereign for all manner of troubles.”

* * *

“Why, how now, Kate?” Rosaline called. The queen had sent her to coax Katharine out of her chamber and persuade her to take some supper, a task at which the queen and Maria had both summarily failed.

“Do not speak to me,” Katharine replied, her face half-buried in bedclothes. “I shall weep.”

“You are weeping already; my speaking can hardly make it worse. Is all of this for thy lord?”

“No; some of it is for my lady. O, that the king of Navarre should speak to her as if she were a second Eve, another betrayer of man!”

“He hath been unjust,” Rosaline agreed. “But it touches not Dumaine, nor Berowne. They spoke no word of blame to us. And Dumaine, I’ll be sworn, looked on you with more love than when we parted a year ago.”

“It does not matter,” said Katharine. She wiped her eyes and tried to be resolute. “We are not like to see them again. Our lady seems to have vowed herself a nun in all but name.”

“Her vows are not ours. Shall we run away to the forest and live upon berries? Or shall we turn shepherdesses, which I have heard is a merry life, and one is sure to be loved by many handsome swains?”

Katharine, however, refused to be teased out of her mood. “My sister,” she mused, “was much upon our years when she died.”

Now Rosaline began to be troubled in earnest. Katharine’s sister had been jilted by a young lord of Prussia, whereupon she had fallen into a consumption, or a green-sickness, or some such thing.

“You have often said yourself she was too heavy of heart, and if she had been merry like us, she might have seen old age.”

“My dear Rose, I have no more mirth than a gravestone. Less, I think, for I have read epitaphs that were merrier.”

“Come, let us find out mirth if we have it not. What shall we make sport withal? I know thou hast a pretty wit.”

“Alas, my wit wants will, without which ‘twill wilt.”

“Alas, poor wit! But have we not wit enough to make will of our own?”

“Of what would we make it?”

“Why, there thou sayest: of wood. A wooden will would ne’er wilt, would ‘t?”

“Thy wit keeps too swift a pace for my will,” said Katharine, but she was no longer weeping. “Let’s in to supper.”

* * *

Supper at King Ferdinand’s hunting lodge did not take place until several hours later, and was a rather gloomy affair.

There had not been time for a proper hunt, but Longaville and Dumaine had managed to shoot a few pigeons, which the resourceful servants baked into a very respectable pie. The food, however, was the only decent thing about the meal. The king still seemed to be in the grip of an unaccountable fury; Dumaine was barely able to bring himself to be civil to the king; Longaville had appropriated one of the bottles of wine to himself and was getting determinedly drunk in the corner. Berowne attempted a few jests, but they fell flat – which put him in a more savage mood than before, since he regarded an unsuccessful witticism as the worst of all possible solecisms. A failed sage, he reflected, might still make a moderate success as a buffoon, but for a failed buffoon there could be no redemption.

“Some music, Lucas,” he called, desperate for anything to distract the company. The boy unpacked his lute and began the song that Berowne had bribed him to sing:

_Like as the gentle heart itself bewrays_  
In doing gentle deeds with frank delight,  
Even so the baser mind itself displays   
In cankered malice and revenge for spite. 

_Love always doth bring forth most bounteous deeds,_  
And in each gentle heart desire of honor breeds;  
True love is free, and led with self delight,   
Ne will enforced be with masterdom or might. 

“A very good song,” Dumaine commented.

“A good singer,” said the king. “I cannot say much for the song.”

Longaville drained his glass and looked around for his bottle of wine, only to discover that Dumaine had quietly moved it out of his reach. He whirled around and informed Dumaine that he was not a child who needed to be protected from himself; Dumaine responded with all the pent-up anger that he had not been able to direct at the king; and the king and Berowne had to separate the two former friends by brute force.

“Longaville,” said the king firmly, “let’s to bed; we hunt at dawn tomorrow. Berowne, will you join us?”

“I will not, my lord. Hunting is the most tedious sport that ever was.”

* * *

As soon as Berowne woke the next morning, he called for pen and ink and wrote a long and agonized letter to Rosaline, sending it off by Lucas. By eleven o’clock, Lucas had returned. He could not deliver the letter, he said; the nuns had turned him away from the hermitage, saying that the queen and her ladies would receive no man but Boyet, who had been entrusted with all the official business of the realm.

The king and Longaville had not returned by dinner-time; after he and Berowne had finished off the leftover pigeon pie, Dumaine proposed again that they walk to the baths. These proved to be worth seeing. Around a large central pool, steaming in the open air, the ancient inhabitants of the region had built a colonnaded portico and decorated it with mosaics. Various nooks and benches were available for the convenience of bathers.

It seemed rather strange to undress and step out under the open sky while stark naked, but the only other bathers were a couple of elderly Frenchmen, who paid the strangers no mind. Berowne cautiously made his way down the marble steps, and found the water pleasantly hot if rather sulfurous. It was supposed to be good for skin diseases, he remembered, so he immersed himself completely.

“ _Bluh bluglug blugoola?_ ” said Dumaine.

Berowne came up for air. “What?”

“Was Lucas coming from the hermitage when I saw him this morning?”

“I would rather not talk of it.” Berowne allowed the waters to close over his head once more.

Dumaine kicked him underwater, which caused him to come up spluttering. “I wish you would not do that. It makes me think you’re drowning.”

“Sorry.”

“I tried to send Katharine a letter, but could not. The queen seems to have walled them in like anchoresses.”

“For their part,” said Berowne shortly, “they seem to have consented to it.”

“Oh, Lord!” protested Dumaine, “do not say you are going to take the king’s part!”

“Fear me not. The king is an ass.”

“I cannot blame Katharine, nor Rosaline neither, for taking their lady’s side; the king insulted her badly. But I would that they knew he did not speak for all of us! How are we to get a message to them?”

Berowne ducked under the water again, considering this question. Before he had come up with an answer, Dumaine prodded him. The baths were filled with the unmistakable sound of two men in the act of carnal knowledge, amplified as it echoed off of the tiled portico.

Berowne looked around. “Where’s Lucas?”

“I think Lucas has found a friend.”

Berowne dried himself off and dressed hurriedly. “Lucas!” he called, approaching the corner of the baths from which the sounds seemed to be coming.

The noises abruptly ceased. A moment later, Lucas emerged from a nook in the corner, looking as if he had put his clothes on in great haste. He was followed, after another moment, by the French lord, Boyet.

“I would be obliged to you,” Boyet muttered, “if you would not mention this to the queen.”

“By all means, Boyet; consider the matter forgotten. For our part, we should be much obliged to you if you would take some letters to certain of the queen’s ladies.”

Boyet bowed. “In all things, sir, I am at your service.”

Berowne searched his pocket for his ill-fated letter, and handed it to Boyet; Dumaine did likewise; and the afternoon ended, more or less, to the satisfaction of all parties.

By way of easing his conscience about this bit of blackmail, Berowne spend most of the walk home endeavoring to explain to Lucas that the sin of Sodom was a very serious matter, and if he ever felt tempted to commit it again, he should do his best to resist. Or, at the very least, he should go to confession afterward.

Lucas ignored the first part of this discourse and latched onto the last point, which he seemed to regard in the light of a free pardon. “Most certainly I will confess it, sir. Is it true that most of the men in France are given to that vice?”

“I do not know. I have heard so.”

“O, I wish we might live in France forever!”

Berowne decided at once to wash his hands clean of all responsibility for Lucas’s moral education, and hinted that such a thing might indeed be possible, if Lucas would be a good lad and assist him in his pursuit of a French lady. Lucas agreed with alacrity.

* * *

They returned to the hunting-lodge to find that King Ferdinand had shot a deer, which always put him in an excellent humor. Dumaine hoped that this meant he would soon come to his senses. Berowne was not so sure. At supper-time, the king raised his glass to his loyal companions and declared that the four of them ought to forswear the pomp of court and live in their rustic sanctuary forever (with servants enough to make such a life comfortable, of course, and plenty of good wine sent up the mountain, along with all the latest books). “With such company as you, my brothers, and freedom from all cares of state, we should rival the old Robin Hood of England and his merry men.”

“Marry, my liege,” said Berowne, “what made the merry men so merry?”

“Maid Marian,” replied the king. “That is a nursery-jest; I wonder you be not ashamed to claim it as your own. But if you _must_ have a Maid Marian, we’ll put you in her apparel and let you play her at the next May-games. Will that content you?”

“It will,” said Berowne, “so long as your majesty will be the hobby-horse.”

Dumaine gave him a pointed look, as if he feared Berowne might undo whatever good work the deer had done, but Ferdinand had not lost his old love for jests at his own expense. He laughed heartily and exclaimed, “O God, Berowne, how I’ve missed you!”

And Berowne remembered, all at once, why he had loved King Ferdinand and sworn to pass the best years of his youth with him. Oh, _damn_.

After supper, Ferdinand proposed that they go out into the garden to enjoy some fresh-picked strawberries. It was still light enough to read, and the king had brought a copy of Horace’s _Carmina_. He had a good voice and read well. Berowne stretched out at his liege’s feet, letting the sonorous rhythm of the verses wash over him like waves on the strand.

It would have been an idyllic evening if Ferdinand had confined himself to the odes in praise of the simple country life. Unwisely, however, the king decided to demand of someone named Lydia why she was ruining his friend for manly pursuits. Berowne, who had been on the verge of dozing off, sat up. Enough was enough.

He caught the sound of a three-note whistle from the cypress trees at the far end of the garden. It would sound like a birdcall to an unpracticed ear, but he had heard Lucas whistle those notes before. Muttering some excuse to the others, he rose and took a short walk down the garden path.

Lucas tossed a bulky package over the garden wall with expert aim, and a moment later, clambered over the wall himself. Berowne caught the package and examined it. There was a note pinned to it: _Come tomorrow at the hour of vespers. Wear this for my sake_. He noted the delicacy of the handwriting and savored the sentiment for a moment, but this was clearly not the time to open the package.

“Leave this in my bedchamber. Take heed that the king sees you not.”

Much later that evening, when he was finally alone, he ripped eagerly into the package. It held a nun’s habit.

He stared at it for a moment, uncertain whether to curse Rosaline or to admire her wit. There wasn’t any real contest, since his sense of humor was stronger than his dignity, but he liked to _pretend_ that dignity might win out.

* * *

The king and Longaville did not rise early for the hunt, as they had done on the previous morning. Longaville looked rather bad; there were dark smudges under his eyes, and he ate little and talked less at breakfast. Ferdinand, too, seemed weary and troubled.

“Is he well?” Berowne asked Dumaine when they were alone.

“He’s had a bad night. The king sat up with him, and would not leave him.”

“You should have woken me.”

“The king forbade it. He said you needed rest. How are you feeling today, by the way?”

“A bit like Brutus, to tell you the truth.”

“Cassius, I.”

“We have _not_ betrayed him,” said Berowne, trying to convince himself. “Not truly. How does it harm him, if we do love? Do we pluck darts from our ladies’ eyes and stab him therewith? Are their letters filled with conspiracies to overthrow his kingdom?”

“Well – no,” Dumaine admitted. “Conspiracies to overthrow our pride, more like.”

“Ha! Katharine’s thought of the same device as Rosaline, has she?”

“Come, shall we take our vows?”

“To the barber’s first, lest our beards betray us. We’re meant to be nuns, not witches.”

“Were you taught by nuns at the petty school? I was, and I tell you ‘tis not always easy to tell the difference.”

* * *

Berowne had grown a full beard in an attempt to hide the pockmarks. It was vain – in all senses of the word – but he felt exposed without it. He adjusted his wimple and turned to face his image in the glass for the first time. Well. His disguise gave him matter enough for laughter to take away the sting of the moment, but he caught himself wishing that it had been paralytic fever, or consumption, or even plague.

Nun’s habits came with a black veil that could be lowered to hide the face, which he would certainly need.

He finished off his costume with a touch of his own, a wooden rosary that had been pressed into his hand by a dying man at the hospital. He felt a twinge of guilt at putting it to such a frivolous use, but there would be time enough for repentance hereafter.

Dumaine took one look at him and collapsed in unholy glee. “God save you, sister.”

“And you, fair sister.”

“Would that I could change that ‘fair’ with you – but I must tell thee friendly in thine ear that thou art the ugliest nun in Christendom. And there is some contest for that title.”

“At least _I_ can walk properly. Will they not know you by your cane?”

Dumaine considered this, hunched over, and managed to do an excellent impression of a bent and palsied old woman. Berowne had to admit that Dumaine was better at this sort of thing than he was. He could speak in the proper voice, too: rather gravelly and tremulous, but not obviously masculine. Berowne resolved to let his friend do most of the talking.


	3. As Love is Full of Unbefitting Strains

“Let’s walk in the cloister,” said Katharine. “Few people come there at this hour; the nuns are at services, and my lady and Maria are reading about the lives of the virgin martyrs.”

Although undoubtedly instructive, this course of reading did not seem to appeal to Rosaline and Katharine; the ladies looked at each other and rolled their eyes.

“You ought not to disparage the virgin martyrs,” said Dumaine solemnly, determined to maintain his character as an elderly nun. “‘Tis a holy death for those that are called to it – though, for my part, I am glad that I was never called to martyrdom, and for the sake of the human race, it is well that not all are called to virginity.”

Rosaline bit her lip to keep from giggling. “You ought to be on the stage, my lord. Sister, I mean.”

The cloister was a pretty little garden, surrounded on all sides by a covered walk and a hedge of rosebushes. Berowne plucked a red rosebud and offered it to Rosaline; she pinned it to the inside of her cloak.

“It would look well in your hair.”

“I dare not wear it so openly. No, you must not kiss me – what if someone should look out and see me kissing a nun? Oh, you’ve pricked your finger, love; let me draw the thorn out.”

“A lovely rose ought not to be guarded so with thorns.”

“It is in the nature of roses.” Rosaline bandaged Berowne’s finger with her handkerchief, which struck him as quite excessive for a wound no larger than a pinprick, but he was not about to object.

“But not in _your_ nature, surely? Come, go away with me. We can be married as soon as I find a priest to do the office.”

“I cannot leave my queen,” said Rosaline sadly. “She was much hurt by your king’s words – for which you are not to blame – and she seems to have made up her mind to stay a virgin for ever.”

“If thy queen is vowed a virgin, does it follow that every lady in France must follow her example?” Berowne was warming to his subject. “No! Why, the queen of England hath been a virgin for well-nigh forty years. Does this mean there is no marrying or giving in marriage in England?”

“Forty years!” said Rosaline. “Why, the queen of England is at least sixty. What was she, pray, before she became a virgin?”

Berowne refused to be distracted by this quibble. “Well, are you not as free as any maid in England?”

“No, for our queen says that she will not leave the hermitage, nor will she allow any of us to leave, save in the company of a chaperone.”

“What chaperone?” Dumaine asked.

“The wife of a Spanish nobleman,” said Katharine with a groan. “I have not met her, but she sounds very tiresome. These Spanish ladies are noted for their strict virtue; my lady says that there is much to be learned from Doña de Armado.”

Berowne and Dumaine collapsed in laughter.

“What is the jest?” asked Rosaline.

As soon as he could speak again, Berowne explained that Doña de Armado had been a Navarrese country wench named Jaquenetta prior to her marriage, and the chief virtue for which she was noted had been her extreme generosity – one might even say prodigality – with her favors and her person.

Katharine brightened. “Can she be bribed, think you?”

“Very easily.”

“We’ll see you tomorrow or the next day, then. Some better place than within these convent walls, do you not think, Rose?”

“By all means,” said Rosaline. She glanced about her and, seeing no movement from the windows that overlooked the cloister, pulled Berowne under the arcade and kissed him fiercely.

* * *

Berowne and Dumaine had almost escaped the hermitage – congratulating themselves on an afternoon well spent – when they were trapped by the Queen of France.

“Good sisters, talk with me a while. I am much troubled in my mind.”

“Eh? Eh?” Dumaine raised a trembling hand to his ear.

“Sister Clare is very deaf,” explained Berowne, in the best falsetto he could manage.

“I will talk with you, then.”

Thus dismissed, Dumaine limped away – rather too quickly for the elderly character he had assumed, although the queen did not seem to notice this discrepancy. Silently, Berowne cursed his friend. It seemed to be too late for him to claim to be deaf too, so he took shelter behind his veil and determined to keep the interview as short as possible.

The queen led him into a small cell that seemed to be her bedchamber. “Tell me, sister, how might I know whether I have a vocation for the religious life?”

 _Dear God_ , Berowne thought, _how am I supposed to answer that?_ “It – it is not a decision to be made lightly, madam, or without long thought,” he managed to say at last. “Especially for a great prince such as yourself. Do you not have a kingdom to rule?”

“I would abdicate in favor of my cousin Louis. He is a good man, and wise, and would make a fine king.”

“Search your heart, madam. Are you sure that you would be taking the vows for the right reason, and not – well, not to spite anyone, for example, or out of some worldly disappointment?” (Somewhat to Berowne’s surprise, this came out sounding like the sort of thing a real nun might say. It was also, of course, completely self-serving, but he let that pass.)

“That is exactly what I am not sure of, sister. I was once – I will not say betrothed to the King of Navarre, but very nearly so. He hath dismissed me from his presence with cruel words, not only against myself, but against all women. If I can find no faith in one I thought gentle and courteous beyond other men – what else is there for me in the world?”

Unconsciously, Berowne’s hand strayed to the rosary that hung at his belt. He was summoning the hardest lessons he had learned during his time at the hospital: those of charity, and of seeing things from another man’s point of view.

“You were grieving for your father’s death when you dismissed him a year ago, madam, were you not? And it made you angry that he spoke to you as a wooer and not as a fellow-mourner.”

“Aye, that is so. It doubled my grief that he took it so lightly. I should have seen him then for what he would prove thereafter.”

“Perhaps not. Consider this, my lady, and think on him with as much charity as you can. The King of Navarre has his own griefs now. They are not as deep as the loss of a father, but he has seen his friends, whom he loved as his own soul, changed in a year’s time from young light-hearted courtiers into men aged by war and pain and sickness. In your heart, madam, can you understand why he might be angry – I do not say in justice, for what he said to you was not just, but in the common weakness of humanity?”

Berowne could tell that this had made an impression: the queen thought for a long time before she spoke. “I do. I do not think I did wrong to send him away, but I should have spoken differently to him when he returned.” She considered a little longer. “Can it be mended now, dost thou think?”

“I hope it may. Give him time. Well, perhaps not _too_ much time,” Berowne amended hastily at the thought of another year of waiting.

“I thank thee, sister. Thou hast set my heart at rest, at least in part.”

“God bless you, my lady, and give you peace of mind.” Berowne turned to go, feeling that he had just had a very narrow escape.

“Tell me one more thing, sister.” There was a dangerous sparkle in the queen’s eyes. “How is it that thou knowest so much of what hath passed between me and my ladies, and the King of Navarre and his men?”

“Good God!” exclaimed Berowne involuntarily. He had been so proud of the adeptness with which he had handled the situation that he had completely forgotten that there was no way for an outsider to know most of what he knew.

“Such language, sister!”

“I mean,” said Berowne hastily, “that God – being, er, good – hath given me the grace to know certain of these things, that I might counsel you the better. It was something like witnessing them in a dream, or a vision.” This was not, he decided, altogether a lie; real life was something _like_ a dream or a vision, apart from being a great deal more awkward and uncomfortable.

The queen laughed. “I think that is the most ingenious defense of gossip that ever I heard. Nay, sister, do not be ashamed; I would be hungry for gossip too, if I were to pass my whole life here.”

“Perhaps, madam, that is a sign that you do _not_ have a vocation as a nun.”

“Perhaps,” said the queen. She was smiling, but she was also looking acutely at Berowne, and he realized, with a sudden lurch of the stomach, that he had just broken character. “By the way, sister, is that Lady Rosaline’s handkerchief bound about your finger?”

“Aye, I pricked my finger in the rose-garden and she lent it to me to stop the bleeding.”

“That was kind of her. She’s very fond of that handkerchief; I have never known her to lend it before.”

“Lady Rosaline is kind in all things.”

“So she is, sister, so she is. Good evening, and I thank you again for your counsel.”

* * *

“What a parcel of pious answers you made to the queen!” said Dumaine. “Did you learn all that wisdom in a hospital?”

“Mock not, for I think I did. Look you, I have been thinking about Longaville and the king –”

They were interrupted by a knock at the door of Dumaine’s chamber. “Well, speak of the devil,” said Dumaine. “Come in.”

Berowne’s earlier impression that Longaville did not look well grew stronger. He seemed exhausted, and his eyes were positively haunted. He also seemed put out to find Berowne there. “I had hoped to speak with Dumaine alone. You’ll mock me.”

Berowne, rather stung by this, made no move to leave.

“Well,” said Longaville after a moment, “say what you will, I care not. You’ve been with Rosaline and Katharine.”

“What makes you say that?” asked Dumaine warily.

“Do you think that I’m blind, man? Why else would you shave your beards off?”

“To stuff tennis-balls withal,” said Berowne.

“Nay, truly, why?”

“Because we have been masquerading as nuns, and under the circumstances beards were an inconvenience.”

Longaville managed a shaky laugh. “I would that I had your powers of invention. Have you ever thought of writing a romance?”

“‘Tis God’s own truth, man. Let me tell you about it, for it is an excellent jest.”

“Berowne,” said Dumaine, “is this the time for a merry tale?”

Berowne ignored this. The instincts he had developed in eleven months at St. Luke’s were telling him that this _was_ the time, and the merrier and the more outlandish the better. “He had rather I not tell you, because he does not cut a good figure in the story, having basely deserted me in the face of grave danger.”

There were few things Berowne enjoyed as much as telling a funny story, especially one in which he himself was the butt of the joke, and he launched into this one with his customary zest. Longaville enjoyed it, too, especially Berowne’s best imitation of Dumaine-as-Sister-Clare, and by the time he finished relating their adventures, Berowne knew that his instincts had been right. Longaville had stretched out to his full length on Dumaine’s bed, as he used to do when he was at ease with the world, and although he did not seem wholly cheerful, the look of acute misery had gone out of his face.

“Well, Longaville, what was it that we were to mock _thee_ about? Come, it cannot be as bad as our own follies, can it?”

Longaville sat up, stiffening a little. “Thou art the only man I know who can make a virtue of his own folly by telling such pretty tales of it. Mine affords no such matter for laughter.”

“Out with it, man.”

“It concerns Maria. I fear that I have wronged her grievously. I also know – be it a weakness in me or a virtue, I know not – that I cannot live without her.” He shot Berowne a quick, defiant look, and Berowne realized, somewhat to his own shock, that his old self would indeed have responded with a gibe. “I – Look you, ever since we came from the wars I have been angry sometimes, for no good reason, and I say things I do not mean. I fear there may be more in’t. I have – seen things – Sometimes when I close my eyes I still see them. I have learned that men who call themselves Christians can be more barbarous than the Turk. And I become – confused – about who is good and what is right, do you see?”

Berowne didn’t see, but it was plain that Longaville was intensely distressed, and by something more complicated than mere love-sickness. Dumaine, who seemed to have a somewhat clearer idea what Longaville was driving at, said gently, “The lady is good, and kind, and generous. You know that, do you not?”

“I do. I also know that I’m not worthy of her. All I ask is an hour or so in her company, that I may pray her pardon.”

Dumaine, deeply touched by this, clasped Longaville’s hand. Berowne shook his head. “Be honest about one thing. You do _not_ want to pray her pardon.”

“I do! My injustice sticks so deeply in my heart that I can but come before her as a poor and undeserving penitent –”

“Pretty, but false,” said Berowne. “Save it for the lady. What _you_ want is not merely to pray her pardon, but to have her love again, which is a more complicated matter.”

“Well – suppose I do. Is it wrong of me to make what amends I can?”

“Not wrong at all,” said Berowne, taking Longaville’s other hand. “I merely thought that we should be frank about your purpose, at least among ourselves. ‘Twill spare you disappointment.”

“You’ll help me, then?” Longaville looked hopeful for the first time.

“I think we can help you to the lady’s company. What happens after that is between you and her.”

Longaville, speechless with relief and delight, tried to embrace them both at once. Surprisingly, it was Dumaine who pulled away first. “There’s one thing, Longaville. You must tell her about – about the wars.”

“Are you _mad?_ ” Longaville had gone very pale. “She’d never have me.”

“I think not,” said Dumaine quietly. “I think it is the surest way to make her understand why you spoke as you did. But if I am wrong, ‘tis all the more reason why thou needs must. In fairness to her, and to thyself.”

Longaville swallowed heavily and said nothing.

* * *

Only with great difficulty were Rosaline and Katharine able to persuade Maria to agree to a meeting.

“I will not speak with him. He has said all that I need to hear.”

Rosaline looked at Katharine. Berowne’s note had hinted, obscurely, at the existence of some circumstances which might mitigate Longaville’s behavior. From the length of the letter that Katharine had received from Dumaine, Rosaline suspected that her friend might know rather more.

“I think there may be something he has not told you,” said Katharine.

“What?” asked Maria skeptically.

“I do not know, but what harm can there be in hearing him?”

“At the very least,” said Rosaline, “you should return the pearls he gave you, if you will not see him again. They are worth much, and perhaps they were his mother’s, or – or his aunt’s, or something.”

Maria snorted. “Or perhaps he intends to give them to another lady, you mean?”

Rosaline pounced on this, as it was the first sign that Maria was not as indifferent as she pretended. “Well, why should he not, when thou hast forsaken thy claim? He may have met another lady already.”

There was a dangerous spark in Maria’s eyes. “Perhaps I _will_ see him. Only to return his remembrances, you understand.”


	4. A Time Too Short to Make a World-Without-End Bargain In

Once Maria had agreed to exchange a few words with Longaville, Rosaline and Katharine went to work on Doña Jaquenetta de Armado. Persuading her to turn a blind eye to the French ladies’ escape involved a great deal of admiring her baby son, to say nothing of cold hard cash. (Luckily, the baby looked nothing like Don Adriano, so the ladies’ compliments on his prettiness were sincere. He also appeared to be somewhat older than three months, though only a year had passed since the wedding.)

Jaquenetta demanded two “guerdons” and eight “remunerations,” which caused no end of confusion until Rosaline figured out that she was under the impression that “guerdon” was another word for a shilling, and “remuneration” for three farthings. She and Katharine paid the price accordingly. (It did not seem right to make Maria pay her share, since she maintained that she had no interest in seeing Longaville whatsoever; but privately, Rosaline and Katharine agreed that she could bear the cost the next time.)

Since Katharine thought that it would be better to be too late than too early, and Maria affected to be indifferent whether the meeting happened at all, the ladies took their time in strolling through the woods. It was wild-strawberry season, and Katharine had brought a basket. Rosaline tried to conceal her impatience. What she wanted was to see Berowne _now_ , to strip the strawberries from their stems and crush them into her mouth, for who knew whether they would have time hereafter?

And then they heard the sound of men’s voices in the glade, and in another moment they were face to face with their lovers. She drew in her breath involuntarily, as she still did every time she saw Berowne’s face. After a minute or two she became accustomed to it, and noticed only his eyes, which were brown and generally alight with mischief.

The men had brought bread, cold venison, and two bottles of the strong cider made in that region. Rosaline saw that this was quite clever, and wondered if Katharine had been up to the same thing with her strawberries. Maria could not very easily hand back the pearls and go away when the others were clearly preparing to sit down to a meal.

If Longaville was pining away for her, it certainly wasn’t very obvious. He was busy showing off his ability to pour out the cider from a height of three feet.

“You had to bribe Jaquenetta, I suppose?” asked Dumaine.

“Ay,” said Katharine, “for – how much was it, Rosaline?”

“Two guerdons and eight remunerations. How much would you say that is, my lord?”

Berowne did some hasty calculations. “I make it half-a-crown.”

Rosaline was rather disappointed that he seemed already familiar with this novel method of reckoning.

Dumaine and Berowne dug half-a-crown’s worth of coins from their pockets; Rosaline and Katharine attempted to wave them away; but before this could develop into an argument, Longaville produced some money of his own and pressed it upon the ladies with a peculiar intensity that verged on desperation. Rosaline found, suddenly, that she could not bring herself to refuse. She did not know precisely what was the matter with him, but she understood that Berowne had been telling the truth in his letter: _something_ was not right.

He did not attempt to speak to Maria until after they had all eaten and drunk, and Katharine had coaxed Dumaine away to gather flowers. Rosaline would gladly have joined them and left Longaville and Maria in private, but Berowne was lying with his head in her lap, apparently fast asleep. Something about the way he had settled himself there told her that the languor of convalescence was still upon him, and made her reluctant to wake him. And so she overheard much of their conversation.

“My lady,” Longaville began, “I have spoken words in the heat of anger that never came from the heart. I humbly ask your pardon.”

“You have it,” said Maria indifferently. “You may have the pearls you gave me, as well; I ought not to have kept them.”

“That is a cold pardon. I had rather you kept the pearls, and spake me friendlier. Maria, can we not be as we were?”

“No, for my heart is not as it was then. Delay in love breeds doubts, but sharp denial death.”

“Words are but wind,” Longaville mused, “why cost they then so much?”

“The guilty kick when they so smartly touch,” replied Maria.

“But thou art innocent, so live unscarred.”

“When innocence is slandered, all is marred.”

Rosaline noted that Maria might not be as indifferent to Longaville’s appeals as she seemed. In her experience, ladies did not complete the rhymes of lords they absolutely scorned.

“Can true repentance make you love anew?”

“How should I know if it be false or true?”

“So earnestly did false love never sue.”

“Liars can plead,” said Maria, “and players shed tears too.”

“Aye, as kittens quack,” murmured Berowne, “or ducklings mew.”

“You are awake,” said Rosaline.

“Nay,” said Berowne, “I can rhyme you ten years together in my sleep; such rhymes are ten for a penny.” But he had opened his eyes. “For my part, I hold a man of but little wit until he can berhyme his lady with an orange.”

“Alack,” said Rosaline, “let him take heed, lest she him sore swinge.”

“Rosaline, you’re a girl worth – silver.”

“I do my good will, sir. Come, will you walk with me?”

“Aye, and talk with thee.” Berowne stood up and dusted himself off. Rosaline led him away under the green boughs.

“Rosaline.” He seemed to speak, for once, wholly in earnest. “Wilt thou take me, in all my faults, for thy husband?”

“Oh, _will_ I!”

“Aye, but when?” Berowne clasped her hand tightly, urgently, and led her within hearing-distance of Dumaine and Katherine. Rosaline realized a second too late what he was trying to do. “For I do take thee, if thou wilt have me, for my wife.”

“Lord Berowne. I will marry you – with all my heart I will – but we _cannot_ do it this way. You know we must not.”

“Oh, aye,” said Berowne carelessly. “You’ll be wanting a pretty gown, and rings and things. I suppose all girls do. I’ll buy them for you tomorrow.”

“Berowne, please listen to me. It’s well enough for shepherds and shepherdesses – and people who have no property – but our sort of people _must_ do it the right way. You must get my parents’ consent, and my lady’s consent, and write to my father about my dowry.”

“My dear girl, I do not give a – a straw about your dowry! I’m a rich man. Very rich, as it happens. I will marry you here, in the clothes you’re wearing, and ask no other dowry and no man’s consent, so you will have me.”

“It is a woman’s consent we must have. You have not, I think, seen my queen at her best; but let me tell you something of her, so that you may know why it matters.” Rosaline thought back through the years, to the day when she had first met the girl who would be her queen. “I was but fourteen when my parents sent me to the court to learn how to be a lady, and you would have laughed to see what a gawky, sullen thing I was. I thought it was so unjust that I had not been born a boy.”

“Sometimes boys, too, are sent unwillingly to court.”

“Ah, but they do not have to be _ladies_. I thought ladies were silly, gossipy creatures, all affectation and flattery. I did not care at all for fine clothes and fine manners – I wanted to stay home in the country with my brothers, and climb trees and ride horses.”

“Oh, do you like horses?” asked Berowne eagerly. “I’ve got beautiful horses on my estate. From Barbary. You shall have as many of them as you like.”

“Lord Berowne, you are not attending!”

“Sorry. By the way, if you _must_ have a priest to tell us what marriage is, and all that – though I’ve never met a child older than five who did not know what marriage was – I hope you do not pay heed to the parts about how wives must always submit to their husbands, for I should not like you half so well if you did.”

Rosaline was not sure whether to kiss him or cuff him. She contented herself with saying, tartly, “I am glad to hear it. Now, if you _can_ go half a minute without talking – where was I? I was telling you about my lady. Yes. When I first came to the court, the princess was there to greet me. She was not more than two or three years older than I, but she had been born to greatness, and I felt a poor, awkward creature beside her. But she spoke to me as if I were the one person in the world she had most longed to meet, and as if the court had not been complete without my presence. And then I knew what it truly was to have the manners of a great lady. When I came to know her better, I learned that she was not only gentle and kind, but also learned and wise, and that she sought the company of others who brought wit and intellect to her court, and shunned those who were merely flatterers.” She broke off, suddenly self-conscious. “But you’ll mock me now, I think. You’ll ask how it is that such a paragon tolerates _me_ , for you must think I sound the worst flatterer in Christendom.”

“No, Rosaline. Believe me, I thought no such matter. I might have told another such tale as yours, for it was just so when I met King Ferdinand. I thought the courtiers would be all toadies and fops, and the king the worst of them, and instead I found him a scholar, a gentleman, and a good fellow to drink a cup with – and what is more to me than all of that, a man able to take a jest against himself with good grace.”

“It had needs be more to you than all that,” said Rosaline, laughing, “he would not be able to endure thee otherwise.”

“ _Why_ does everyone think I am capable of nothing but gibes and mockery?” Berowne demanded.

Rosaline almost laughed again, but she saw just in time that he was in earnest. “I am sorry, my lord. I think we all remember you as you were, and forget what you might be.”

“You saw what I might be before I saw it myself. I thank you for it.”

They stood looking at each other for a moment. Rosaline found it suddenly hard to draw breath, although he wasn’t even touching her.

“So,” said Berowne at last. “You say your lady must consent, and for my part, I hope for my liege’s sake that he may be reconciled to the match.”

“ _I_ hope so too.”

“Why?”

“Here he comes.”

Berowne turned abruptly. “Oh, _hell!_ ”

* * *

The king spotted Dumaine and Katharine first. “Dumaine! What means this!”

Dumaine, who had been weaving a chaplet of daisies for Katharine’s hair, started and looked up. “It means Katharine has consented to marry me, my lord.”

Ferdinand turned scarlet. “Well, I do not consent to give you in marriage! If you have no respect for yourself, at least have some for Berowne!”

Berowne and Rosaline, still hidden in the thicket, looked at each other. “Go on,” said Rosaline, “‘tis our cue.”

Berowne stepped forward, still holding Rosaline’s hand. “What’s the matter? God give you joy, Dumaine. I see no reason why objections should be made in my name.”

“Where’s Longaville?” demanded the king. “Were _he_ here, he’d scorn such dalliance, I’ll be sworn.”

Evidently Longaville and Maria had also been waiting for their cue, for they both stepped out of the trees. Their arms were tightly entwined about each other; they looked as if they had both been weeping.

“Then must your majesty be forsworn,” commented Berowne.

“Longaville!” exclaimed the king. “ _Et tu, Brute?_ ”

Longaville knelt. “Pardon, my liege. It – it is not what you think, your majesty. We were – were rehearsing a pageant. In honor of your majesty’s birthday.”

_Pageant?_ Dumaine, Berowne, and the three ladies stared at Longaville, utterly baffled.

So did Ferdinand. “My birthday? My birthday was four months ago.”

“We thought ‘twould give you all the more pleasure because it came unlooked-for.”

“Besides,” added Berowne, deciding on the spur of the moment to play along, “we were not there to keep the last one with you.”

Ferdinand looked as if he found this very flattering indeed, and Berowne had begun to entertain hopes that he might be reconciled to the ladies’ presence, when the Queen of France swooped down upon them. She was followed by Boyet, who was pleading, “Patience, your Majesty, patience!” to no noticeable effect.

“My ladies,” declared the queen in a voice like thunder and hail, “if ladies you be, and if you be mine, of which I am in sore doubt – I am appalled that you have chosen to steal from the hermitage without my leave and disport yourselves among these churls, these kill-courtesies, these swine.” 

“If you were a gentleman,” Ferdinand retorted, “I’d hew your limbs from your body for speaking of my men in such terms!” 

“If _you_ were a gentleman, sir, you would still be beneath my notice. Therefore I will not speak with you.”

Nobody, not even Berowne, ventured to point out that she _was_ speaking with him.

“I have said enough!” added the queen. “Ladies, come away. Farewell, Sister Clare!”

“Good madam –” protested Rosaline.

“My gentle lady –” said Katharine.

“Will you hear –” cried Maria.

“Your majesty,” said Boyet, “if I may speak as a man, and as one who has – well – _vast_ experience of men...”

But the queen had already swept away; Boyet and the ladies looked helplessly at each other and followed her, all talking at once.

Dumaine elbowed Berowne. “I thought you said you had almost persuaded her to forgive him.”

“I thought I had. Perhaps she cannot forgive _them_.” Berowne nodded toward the departing ladies. “‘Tis a pity she had to bring the king into it.”

“We are worse off than before. Now we have to write a pageant.”

Berowne shrugged. The pageant sounded like the easy part, and he already had an idea how he might turn it to his own ends.

Ferdinand had not spoken since the queen’s departure. He had gone an unattractive shade of red – one that looked more like shame, Berowne thought, than anger.

When he did speak, what he said was wholly unexpected. “Why did the queen call Dumaine ‘Sister Clare’?”

“She did not speak like one in her right wits, my liege,” said Berowne quickly. “Her ladies say she has fallen into distraction from your majesty’s cruelty.”

“Alas,” sighed the king, “poor lady!”

Berowne, Dumaine, and Longaville looked at one another. Berowne dared to hope that a reconciliation between the king and queen was nearer than it seemed.


	5. The Right Promethean Fire

Rosaline feared that all of the work of the last few days had been undone, but it soon appeared that the queen was angrier at her own ladies than she was at Ferdinand and his men. Though she was a kind and generous woman, she was unaccustomed to disobedience from her courtiers, and in particular, she expected her three favorite companions to confide in her.

She looked deeply and genuinely hurt. The three favorite companions looked at one another, and all spoke at once in their eagerness to perjure themselves. Having no better ideas, they adopted Longaville’s story: they had met with the men, in all innocence and without any interest in renewing their former loves, to rehearse an entertainment for Her Majesty’s birthday. (What this lacked in originality, it made up in plausibility, since the queen’s birthday actually _was_ only a few days away.) One must needs have gentlemen to assist at such an entertainment, or there could be no dancing afterward; and the King of Navarre’s men were the only gentlemen available, always excepting Boyet, who could hardly partner _all_ of them.

“I ... I am flattered,” said the queen. “Forgive my anger; ‘twas unworthy of me. It is only ...”

None of the ladies asked “Only what?” but it was becoming apparent to Rosaline that her lady’s feelings toward King Ferdinand were, at the very least, complicated – but that pride would not let her speak about the matter, unless perhaps Ferdinand were to speak first.

“Have we your permission to continue our rehearsals?” Maria ventured to ask at last.

“Rehearsals,” said the queen absently. “Oh, aye. Do as you will.”

* * *

“The title of our pageant,” Berowne announced proudly, “shall be _The Marriage of Pallas and Apollo_.”

Katharine frowned. “Of Pallas and Apollo?”

“They _could_ be married by now,” Berowne insisted. “Are they not immortal? And has it not been more than a thousand years since the last of the pagan poets lived to chronicle their deeds?”

“Was not Pallas sworn to virginity?” asked Maria.

“Just so. In that, as in her wit and wisdom, she betokens your lady; and who better than Apollo, the god of music and learning, to signify our king? And the argument shall be how Pallas was persuaded to renounce her virginity and wed him. ‘Twill be one of those pageants that give sound advice, under the guise of flattery.”

“The advice, in this instance, being that the king should marry his half-sister?” asked Rosaline.

“I did not say that the correspondence was exact _in every point_ ,” said Berowne.

“Who is to play Apollo and Pallas?” Rosaline asked, secretly hoping for the part of Pallas herself. She was not disappointed by Berowne’s answer.

“And Katharine,” said Dumaine, “must be Venus, and I’ll be limping Vulcan.”

“A great argument of cuckoldry!” said Katharine. “Who is to be Mars?”

“We’ll not have Mars in our pageant,” said Longaville firmly. “I’ve met the fellow, and I do not like him.”

“I had thought of Maria and Longaville as Juno and Jupiter,” said Berowne.

Neither party made any objection.

Berowne began distributing scrolls of paper. “Masters – and mistresses – here are your parts and your cues; I would have you con them by Wednesday night. I pray you, fail me not.”

* * *

 _The Marriage of Pallas and Apollo_ was about to begin, and Berowne realized the whole thing had been an enormous mistake. To his horror, Jaquenetta had invited her husband, his page Moth, and his friends Holofernes and Nathaniel to watch the show. Last year, they had presented a pageant of the Nine Worthies before Ferdinand’s court, with more enthusiasm than skill, and all of the young men had mocked them relentlessly. It had seemed very witty at the time, although Berowne no longer remembered why.

“I am sick,” Berowne announced. “I have chills, and a queasy stomach. I think I am catching smallpox again.”

“You cannot have smallpox twice,” said Rosaline decisively, “and I do not believe you are sick. You fear being mocked, as well you should, for you would deserve it.”

“You are positively the cruelest lady I have ever known. I do not understand why I love you.”

“And I do not understand why I love _you_ , but so I do, and ten thousand mockers could not flout me out of it.”

* * *

 _O Juno_ , declaimed Longaville rather woodenly, _I have been a fool e’er now_  
_I have caused thee pain; do not even ask me how_  
_I came to know it all was nothing worth._  
_But I do swear to thee, from this day forth_  
_I’ll be the best of husbands, come what may;_  
_I swear to thee, yea from this very day._

“He hath sworn on the same day twice,” remarked Moth. “If two affirmatives make a negative, as two negatives make an affirmative, I would not believe him if I were Juno.”

“‘Tis not possible for two affirmatives to make a negative,” Holofernes the schoolmaster explained, “for though that which is ‘not not’ is so, that which is ‘so so’ is not ‘not’.”

“And yet, that which is so-so is not good,” replied Moth, “and so, if I were Juno, I would not believe his word was good.”

“Hush,” said Jaquenetta, “the lady speaks.”

“O monstrous ignorance,” said Sir Nathaniel, “that is no lady but the goddess Juno, the queen of heaven.”

“By all that I have heard of her, sir, she was indeed no lady,” said Moth.

_Jupiter, my dearest, how glad I find me_  
_That I have willed to put the past behind me._  
_The lover and beloved are not tied to one love,_  
_And so nought can our mutual affection move._  
_I fear no more betrayal, what e’er may occur_  
_With Eris, Leto, or Demeter,_  
_Electra, Danaë, or Gaia,_  
_Pyrrha, Niobe, or Maia,_  
_Eurymedousa or Alcmene,_  
_Io, Europa, or Semele..._

In the audience, Holofernes and Nathaniel were loudly correcting Maria’s pronunciation of most of these names.

_If I e’er was jealous, I forsake that sin_  
_And seek to please my consort and my kin._  
_What’s past is gone; the married state is sweet._

Lucas, who had been cast as a messenger, unexpectedly burst onto the stage. “ _My lord, Apollo doth thy grace now greet_.”

Berowne hastily grabbed Dumaine’s cane and hooked Lucas back into the wings. “Not _yet_ , you fool.”

“But I thought ‘The married state is sweet’ was my _cue_.”

“Not the _first_ one, idiot! You go on when _Venus_ says it to Vulcan.”

“Where is Vulcan?”

“ _Trying_ to walk on with his beloved Venus,” said Dumaine, “but missing a crucial prop. So to speak.”

“Oh. Sorry.” Berowne returned the cane, and Dumaine went to meet Katharine on stage.

_Venus! I had not thought to here thee meet._  
_Know this: the noble heart doth all forgive._  
_What e’er has been, with thee I would still live._  
_Love is the flame that in my forge doth fire;_  
_Love is the chain I hammer from desire;_  
_And gods, as men, with solemn faith it binds._

It occurred to Berowne that he should have made this speech longer, since Dumaine was the only one of them who could actually act.

_Vulcan, I see thy beauty in thy mind;_  
_And now I do repent all I have done wrong_  
_If I could change the past, I would do so ere long;_  
_For I see now that Mars his charms are faint,_  
_I would be true to thee as is a saint._

“Pardon, error!” said Armado. “How should the goddess Venus apprehend, or cognize, aught of sainthood, when she flourished ere there were saints on this terrene sphere, which the vulgar multitude do call the world?”

“She is immortal, sir,” explained Moth, “and in any case, ‘tis merely an allusion.”

“Aye,” explained Constable Dull, who had been hired to guard the door, “the illusion holds in the sex-change.”

_No lameness doth thy heart or mind impair,_  
_In all thy gift of art, I find thee fair._  
_O, all is joy; the married state is sweet._

“ _My lord_ ,” announced Lucas, in the right place this time, “ _Apollo doth thy grace now greet_.”

Berowne walked on stage with Rosaline, gulped heavily, and began his speech.

_Pallas, courteous lady, from whose rich mind_  
_Springeth all wit, let me invention find_  
_To praise thine every part with golden lyre –_

“Wherefore ‘golden lyre’?” asked Armado. “Is it not the proverb, or adage, or saw, in your country to say that liars have tongues of silver?”

“He had needs be a golden liar,” explained the queen, “because gold is heavier than silver, and like most men, he lies in weighty matters.”

Armado nodded earnestly and made a note in the little book in which he was collecting French phrases.

Berowne glared at the audience. _If not interrupted by some base squire,_  
_I’ll sing to thee of th’ right Promethean fire_  
_That sparks in lovers’ eyes when they find bliss._  
_But first, I beg of thee a loving kiss._

__Rosaline had very nearly been overcome with giggles at the line he had improvised, but she managed to deliver her reply soberly enough._ _

_Apollo, though thy wit doth well commend thee,_  
_Know I am sworn for aye a maid to be,_  
_And ne’er wed husband, be he ne’er so wise;_  
_This single state to me is paradise._

___Alack!_ replied Berowne, _what paradise can lack increase!_  
_Do not the flowers multiply, and bees?__ _

__This part had seemed better when he had written it. Ignoring the fact that Jaquenetta and Moth were openly snickering, he pressed on with Apollo’s argument in praise of marriage, which went on for some twenty lines and did not actually improve with length. He and Rosaline had a song after that, with Lucas accompanying them on his lute; luckily, it was an old familiar tune and they made no mistakes, although feigning that Apollo had just written it seemed particularly absurd._ _

__Then – _somehow_ – Pallas gave in to his persuasions, and he and Rosaline had a dance with Juno and Jupiter, and the three pairs of blissfully married gods tripped off to downy beds of clouds atop Mount Olympus. The actors playing them tripped off, too – falling all over one another in their eagerness to get away. Berowne ripped the laurel wreath from his head, threw his bow and arrow across their makeshift tiring-room, and collapsed in a corner._ _

__Rosaline found him there, and produced a flask of aqua-vitae from somewhere under Pallas’s helmet. This confirmed Berowne’s impression that his lady was, in fact, a goddess of wisdom. He drank deep._ _

__“Thy king and my queen liked it well,” said Rosaline. “Didst hear them applaud?”_ _

__“I heard nothing except Moth and Armado and Holofernes,” said Berowne. “I suppose _last_ year, they must have heard nothing but us.” He cast his mind back to that evening, and was more than ever convinced that he and his friends had endured nothing more tonight than what they deserved. “Your lady was kind to them when we were not,” he said at last. “I pray she may be kind to us.”_ _

__“I think she will be,” said Rosaline. “She says that she would speak with you, when you are ready.”_ _

__Berowne groaned, took another swallow of aqua-vitae, and got to his feet._ _

__* * *_ _

__“I enjoyed the pageant greatly,” said the queen. “‘Twas very full of ... er ... invention. So many of these court entertainments are all alike, and this one certainly was not.”_ _

__Berowne bowed. “Madam, I am honored.”_ _

__She turned to Longaville and Dumaine, who had accompanied him. “Well acted, both of you. You discharged your parts as though you were the very gods themselves.”_ _

__They stammered their thanks._ _

__“So much grace for my men,” said King Ferdinand, “and so little for me?”_ _

__Berowne, Longaville, and Dumaine looked at one another, startled._ _

__“You have begged none,” said the queen. “Nor offered none.”_ _

__“I beg it now,” said Ferdinand, and abruptly went down on his knees._ _

__“Do not kneel to me; you are a king, and my brother-monarch.”_ _

__“I kneel as a penitent. Call me Jupiter, if you will. This pageant has taught me to hope that wrongs may be forgiven if freely confessed.”_ _

__It was obvious that Ferdinand had more to say, and that the queen – who had been looking quite as astonished as any of them – was willing to hear it. Longaville, the first to recover his presence of mind, drew the others away._ _

__* * *_ _

__“‘Tis well?” Berowne asked Moth, who had been spying on the king and queen through a knot-hole._ _

__“Very well, sir,” said Moth, “they’ve had a babe already.”_ _

__“ _What?_ ” Berowne shoved Moth aside._ _

__“I mistook, sir; ‘tis only Doña de Armado’s babe. The queen is very fond of him. Your king seems to be fond of him too.”_ _

__Sure enough, the queen was sitting with Jaquenetta’s child on her lap, and the king was leaning over her to chuck the infant on the chin. It was a tableau such as Berowne had sometimes seen in pictures of the Holy Family. Come to think of it, the baby in _those_ pictures had been of doubtful parentage too._ _

__“Well _enough_ , I suppose,” said Berowne, yielding the knot-hole to Maria. “I had rather they talked of love than babies.”_ _

__“‘Tis all one; you cannot have one without the other,” said Katharine happily. (This, Berowne thought, was a sure sign that Katharine had not spent the last year in a hospital knee-deep in foundlings.)_ _

__“ _Why_ is Jaquenetta still there?” demanded Longaville. “Has she not discretion enough to leave them in private?”_ _

__“Hush,” said Rosaline, “‘tis plain to see that she stayed to fulfill her duty as chaperone. And I think it serves the queen right, too.”_ _

__“ _Do_ they need a chaperone?” asked Dumaine._ _

__Maria turned away from the knot-hole. She was smiling broadly. “Yes,” she said. “I should say they _do!_ ”_ _

__* * *_ _

__The Queen of France and the King of Navarre were wed a month later, as soon as treaties could be drawn up with the terms for uniting the two kingdoms, and as soon as the rites could be celebrated with proper pomp and ceremony. This was especially important since three of the queen’s ladies were to be married to the king’s closest companions at the same time._ _

__The entertainment at the wedding was strictly professional in nature. A troupe of Spanish actors performed Lope de Vega’s latest play, which was very well received, and French boys sang _chansons_ with voices like angels. For all that, Rosaline could not help thinking that _something_ was lacking – something which had, after all, been present in _The Marriage of Pallas and Apollo_ , and in the pageant of the Nine Worthies that Holofernes had produced the year before._ _

__“It is life, I suppose,” said Berowne when she told him. “It will come in good time. It comes to us all, even choirboys.”_ _

__They watched the king and queen and Maria and Longaville dance, graceful as butterflies; and they watched Katharine rise and take Dumaine by the arm. He looked a little baffled about how to manage his crutch, but he followed her onto the dance floor, as best he could._ _

__“Shall we dance, my lord?”_ _

__“As you will, my lady.”_ _

__As she took her husband by the hand for the first time, she noticed that he was humming a tune that was not the one the French musicians were playing:__

__"When icicles hang by the wall,_ __and Dick the shepherd blows his nail..."___


End file.
